


Should've been the Last

by MissLittyKitty



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 07:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9481058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissLittyKitty/pseuds/MissLittyKitty
Summary: The Reader has had some unexpected news and remembers how she met Sam several years ago.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is written in 1st person (Y/N’s point of view), has some swearing and description of panic attack.  
> It's set around the time when Sam regains (part of) his memories of the time he was soulless. This was started as an entry for blacktithe7‘s 1500 Follower Celebration Challenge over on tumblr with the prompt “Come Over” by Kenny Chesney. It grew a life of its own from there...  
> This story is not finished and it will take some time until the next chapter goes up.

Part 1

A Monday. It had been a stormy Monday, around lunchtime, in mid-November when two men had walked into the office and right up to my desk. Dressed in black suits, they’d demanded to speak to my boss. 

As the good receptionist I’d been (serving as my boss’ personal assistant, too), I’d inquired if they had an appointment. Their response was to present their badges and introduce themselves as Agents Kent and Parker of the FBI. 

“FBI? Oh my,” I’d squeaked, prompting the tall Agent to flash me a warm smile. His kind gaze had held mine, that dimpled smile still in place and he’d (nervously?) brushed some strands of hair from his forehead. That, however, hadn’t made it easier to get over the shock of having two FBI Agents inside the office. Quite to the contrary, it had made my stomach produce a host of vicious butterflies, attacking my insides with their incessant flapping. His partner’s slightly annoyed voice asking to speak to my boss again, had snapped me (us?) out of it and helped me to overcome the shock, trance…whatever, I had fallen into. 

Informing them that, sadly (luckily) my boss wasn’t in, I probed them into telling me what their visit was about. To make a long story short: by the end of the week I’d drawn the following conclusions:  
a) a string of mysterious disappearances had led them to the office;  
b) they (Sam and Dean) weren’t really FBI Agents;  
c) monsters and especially Werewolves existed, my boss being one of them;  
d) I had been the next victim on his list;  
e) Sam (and Dean) had saved my life (as well as lost me my job which is to be expected when they had to kill my boss) and  
f) I was utterly and undeniably attracted to my savior. 

But at that time, I had no idea if this feeling was mutual, despite the shared glances or lingering touches between Sam and me, because nothing more had happened. Only a few weeks later, shortly before Christmas, I’d found out that indeed, the feeling had been, and still was, mutual. 

On a Friday night, he’d come back and had me on my back in my bed not five minutes after knocking on the door. And he’d stayed the whole weekend, with the two of us barely leaving my bedroom. 

Those two days had been a whirlwind of emotions. Passion, of course, while rolling between the sheets, sweaty skin to sweaty skin, fucking the heck out of one another. There had been laughter and joy when he’d told me of the funnier episodes he’d been through with his brother and when I’d snapped some pictures of us together so that I could remember him; and us. 

And that, of course, had let to the sad part. He’d made it clear from the start that this between us could never be more. His so-called job, but he actually meant his whole lifestyle, wouldn’t allow it. 

So on Sunday night, I’d watched from my front door as he got into his brothers’ car, seeing his hand lift in a final wave goodbye and looked on at their backlights long after they had faded into the darkness. 

Coming out of the memory, my gaze lands on the bracelet around my left wrist, one he had given to me on his second visit a few weeks later. And I know then – as I have right from the start – with such a profound certainty that the first time should’ve been the last. At least the second time should’ve been. But it hadn’t.  
Over the months, and eventually, years, passing, he had come back to me several times, probably against his better judgment because, on every visit, he’d made sure I still wore the bracelet, telling me it was for my protection and had me swear I’d never take it off.

And every time, against my better judgment (and my, in all honesty, not that strong resolve) I’d let him in. Every single time. Because I’d been too weak to refuse his puppy dog eyed look; too weak to refuse him the comfort I could offer when he told me his brother was dead; too weak to leave him standing outside my door when he told me it most likely was the last time I’d ever see him; and too weak to refuse him when he’d shown up again, telling me with a wicked smile that ‘apparently he’d been wrong last time’. 

He had become my weakness because, as I know now, I’d been too in love with him from the very start. And I still am. That thought, that feeling makes me angry. How can I still be in love with him after the way he had treated me the last time he’d been here? With everything he’d said to me? It had been the one time, in almost five years, I’d come close to taking off the bracelet. But even then, I couldn’t bring myself to. 

It would’ve meant letting go of the man I had gotten to know over the years. It would’ve meant admitting that this man, this kind, passionate and loving man I’d fallen in love with – my Sam, as I called him in my head – was truly and irreversibly gone. Because the Sam I’d seen last hadn’t been him.  
That Sam had been passionate alright but in a totally hard and driven way, seeking out his own pleasure first before (if at all) giving something back. He’d been a domineering, callous, almost cold and, at the end, downright nasty bastard. And I’d cried for days after he left. 

Soft music reaches my ears and I recognize Kenny Chesney’s ‘Come Over’ which I’ve set as my ringtone but I ignore it as tears start to burn behind my eyes. Squeezing them shut for a few seconds, I feel the worn leather band on my left wrist as I drop the picture I’m holding onto the coffee table in front of me and reach for the second one. 

Even before my eyes can make out the marked dot in all the black, white and gray blotches, fresh tears blur my vision. The ache in my heart so strong, I’m unable to fight it. How could it have come to this? Why did I let it come to this? The tears fall, one by one, as the last words he ever said to me echo in my mind: “Y/N, you’ve been nothing more than a distraction whenever I needed one. Don’t turn this into something it never was.”

I’d slapped him then with such force, it had actually turned his head. The humiliation, the pain and especially the anger creating a strength in me I hadn’t been aware of before. His eyes had found mine again for a few seconds, his gaze cold, calculating and without another word he’d left.  
That had been over four months ago and I’d sworn myself, despite keeping the bracelet, that I would forget about him; that I wouldn’t live my life solely based on the sheer hope of seeing him just one last time. I swore to myself that I would move on. And I had. Partly. I’d sold my house and bought a new one just a few towns over. I’d gotten a new job, found some new friends. But I should’ve know that moving on with my heart wouldn’t be that easy. I still am in love with Sam, despite it being over a year since I’d really seen him. My Sam. 

Stifling another sob, I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, dropping the picture from my left hand onto the table and stand up. I drag myself over to the bathroom and remove the last of my tears with several handfuls of cold water. After drying my face, I meet my own gaze in the mirror and sigh deeply.  
I feel so lost, so helpless. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do. Oh, I know what I want to do; there’s only one thing I really want, yet, I know just as well that I can’t do it. Which reminds me of my cell phone ringing a few minutes ago. 

With another long exhale, I make myself leave the bathroom and trudge on to the kitchen where I’d left the phone on the counter. I open up the call log and see several calls from an unknown number. I scroll further down and suddenly freeze. My mouth hangs open as I stare at the name and time of the last outgoing call. How…why? What the hell have I been thinking, calling him in the middle of the night? Calling him at all? And why don’t I remember that I did it?  
In any other circumstances, I would’ve thought I’d been drunk last night. And as much as I crave a drink right about now, with what I’d learned yesterday, that isn’t an option anymore. 

I have no time to dwell on it as a knock on my door jolts me out of the shock. I drop the phone and head to the door. My mind is still reeling with so many emotions, so that when I open the door, it takes almost a minute to realize what I’m looking at. Or rather who. 

“Sam?”


	2. Part 2

Part 2

“Sam?”

The voice saying his name doesn’t sound like my own. It’s too high, too breezy and all too weak. I’m staring at him slack-jawed and when he starts to smile, just a small one giving his dimples no chance to show up, my knees start to wobble. 

“Hi, Y/N,” he replies, his voice lower, huskier than I remember. He brings up a hand to rub along the back of his neck in an embarrassed gesture, his smile turning a little lopsided. 

He knows what he’s done to me, the thought flashes through my mind and all at once, the shock, the bafflement lose out to the blind fury rising up inside me. Without realizing it, I’m on him in seconds, pummeling his chest and shoulders with my fists. 

“Why the hell are you here? You have no right to be here, not after what you did; what you said,” I yell, the sound of my voice shrill and unsteady, reflecting the bizarre jumble of emotions inside me. 

“I…ow, Y/N, listen. That’s…ow, stop it,” he stutters, bringing up his forearms to shield himself from my attack and manages to capture both of my wrists. But I don’t stop, I can’t. I fight against his hold on me, turning and twisting and pulling my arms away, trying to free myself. 

“Don’t you dare tell me what to do, you self-righteous asshole,” I cry, feeling the angry tears already prickle behind my eyes. Yet, as much as I struggle, he holds on and eventually spins me around, his arms in a lock-hold around my upper body, my arms pressed to my sides and my back flush with his chest. 

I feel his quickened breath, mostly through his heaving chest; feel his body heat engulfing me and the strong arms holding me tightly to him. And then I hear his quiet voice, “I’m so, so very sorry, Y/N” and the will to fight him, to hurt him as much as he had hurt me, leaves me. I collapse in on myself or I would have if Sam hadn’t been holding me. The tears come, I can’t hold them back and I succumb to the violent sobs tearing from my throat. 

Only gradually I become aware that Sam turns me around, lifts me into his arms and carries me inside, closing the door with a kick of his foot. I cling to him, my hands clutching the fabric of his jacket and my tears wetting the side of his neck. He sits us down on the couch, keeping me on his lap and brings his arms up to hold me tight. I feel one of his hands drawing soothing circles on my back while his other hand rests on the back of my head. I hear the low, calming sound of his voice although I don’t understand the words he’s saying. 

My whole inner turmoil which I so successfully bottled up inside me for the past months, breaks the surface, leaving me a blubbering, sobbing mess. It all comes pouring out and it seems endless. I don’t know for how long we sit like this, me clutching his jacket, his shirt, trying to anchor myself to him, feeling so helpless in this overwhelming outburst of emotion. And he holding me, trying to soothe and comfort me. 

Eventually, my sobs subside and I calm down enough to slowly loosen my hold on him. When I look up and meet his gaze, there is a sharp intake of breath. A few seconds later, I realize that I made that sound. Because of his eyes. His beautiful eyes. Last time I saw them, they had been looking at me with a hard, cold indifference and, after I’d slapped him, even with contempt. Now, all I see in them is kindness and warmth and – dare I believe it – love. There is a gentleness to his whole features and, when he reaches for a Kleenex and starts to dab the wetness from my cheeks, his movements are tender and delicately soft. 

“It’s really you”, I whisper, knowing my words can’t truly make sense, even when I add, “The real you.” But Sam smiles at me, nods his head once while continuing to rid my face of the tearstains. 

“Yeah, it’s the real me”, he agrees. “And I am so very sorry that you had to meet…the other me.” His words make me nod, at first. Then I shake my head and hold up a hand. 

“Hang on…can…can we rewind a bit? What…what happened to you after the last time I saw you? To the real you.” 

He sighs and averts his eyes, his hand dropping from my face and I can practically see the wheels turning in his head. At the same time, he seems to be pulling away from me, emphasized by him softly moving me from his lap so that we sit side by side on the couch. I swallow hard and place a hand on his, saying, “I mean, you don’t have to tell me but…last time, you seemed awfully sure you wouldn’t come back.” 

“I know…and I was. It’s just…there is so much, it’s hard to find a place to start. But you deserve…no.” He stops himself, heaves another sigh and finds my gaze again before he continues, “You need to know the truth so that maybe….” 

And once more he trails off, drops his gaze and scoots down his end of the two-seater, away from me. Immediately I feel the loss of him being so close, of his warmth, his solidness. I miss the way I feel whenever he has his arms around me: safe, secure and sheltered. Simultaneously, I’m angry at myself for feeling this way; for needing him like this; and for making it so easy on him. Yet, when he looks up to meet my gaze, I can see the chaos inside him and realize that being here, facing what he has done to me when he wasn’t himself (for whatever reason), is anything but easy for him. 

Forming my lips into a smile, I prompt, “So that maybe what?”   
He holds my gaze, this time, opens his mouth several times and closes it without speaking, struggling to find the right words. Eventually, his voice barely above a whisper, he says, “So that maybe, one day, you can forgive me.” 

My eyes widen at his unexpected words; his unexpected confession. It’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of; everything I’ve ever wanted from him. It’s right there in front of me: in his eyes, his whole face, and posture and even in his words. And a year ago, I would’ve jumped at this chance without a second thought. Hell, even six months ago, I would’ve.

But right now, with everything that has happened since, I’m not jumping. I’m not even thinking about jumping. Because I already jumped once. Yet, instead of being caught in his strong arms and held against his warm, solid chest, I fell flat on my face and received a kick to the stomach on my way down. I won’t make this mistake twice. As much as I want to, as much as I still love him (and probably always will), I’m through with being the dumb one. Luckily, I don’t have to decide on any kind of response as his voice disrupts my thought process and he begins to tell his story. 

He tells me everything: about Dean selling his soul for him and going to hell. About the angels (one in particular) who raised Dean from hell. About Ruby, about Lilith. About Lucifer and about him jumping into the cage, thwarting the angels’ big plan and preventing the apocalypse; sacrificing himself for all of mankind.   
He doesn’t say it like that, of course, but I know it’s what he (and Dean) have done. Just like they felt the need to save me from my monster-boss all those years ago, they felt it their responsibility to save the whole world. 

To say the least, it’s a lot to take in. And it isn’t even all of it, yet. He goes on and explains that he, too had been raised from hell almost right after he had jumped in. 

“But…I’ve…I’ve got no memory of it…well, for now, it’s just...bits and pieces. For a long time, I had no recollection of ever being in hell. And that’s actually most important because…. Y/N, whoever raised me from hell left some part of me behind in the cage. The most essential part.”

“What…what are you saying?” I ask, my brow furrowed. “So last time I saw you, four months ago….” 

“I had no soul”, he finishes my sentence and I gap at him. If anyone else had told me this, I wouldn’t have believed a word, it all sounds so unbelievable. But this, as well as the fact that it’s Sam who is telling me all this, is the very reason I believe him. There is absolutely no reason for him to fabricate such a fantastical story just to try and appease me or win me back. Come to think of it, after what happened at our last meeting, there is no earthly reason for him to be here unless he really wants to make amends. 

I reach for his hand and wrap mine around it and his eyes find mine. I swear, I see tears swimming in those beautiful, deep eyes when he continues to speak, “I’ve…I’ve got my soul back now but…there’s still a lot I don’t remember of…of my soulless time. When I saw you calling last night…our last encounter came back to me in…well, kind of flashbacks. Y/N, I…I am so, so sorry.” 

A lone tear slips from his left eye and, without thinking twice, I’m right beside him, reaching up a hand and wipe it away with the pad of my thumb. 

“It…it’s okay, Sam.”

“No, Y/N, it’s not okay, far from it,” he spits out so harshly that I am momentarily taken aback. He clasps my hand in his big, warm one and adds in a softer tone, “What I did…what I said…how can I ever make it up to you?” 

“You don’t,” I reply, covering his hand holding mine with my other one and smile. “I understand now. It…it wasn’t really you who did all that. I…I forgive you.”   
I only realize what I’m saying while I’m speaking the words and for a moment, I am as stunned by them as Sam is. I’m mirroring his wide-eyed stare, at least it feels like it as we look at each other. 

“How can you say that, Y/N?” he exclaims, shakes his head and releases a humorless chuckle. “I called you a convenient distraction mere seconds after you told me you love me. That’s…unforgiveable.”

The way he looks at me, his eyes open wide, glistening with unshed tears, regret and guilt furrowing his brow but a warmth and openness radiating off of his whole being, shows me exactly why I’m not angry at him anymore: right here in front of me sits a man looking for redemption, not one to inflict more pain.   
He wants to right as many of the wrongs as he possibly can even though he knows the guilt coming with it will weigh him down. This – exactly this – is the man I fell in love with; the man I still am in love with and would gladly give my life for. 

“I still love you, Sam”, I breathe. I actually haven’t meant to say it out loud but the words just come out. His eyes widen even further and he swallows, hesitates. For a split second, his gaze flicks down. When he looks up at me again, I smile and that’s when he jerks forward, cradles my face in his hands and crashes his lips to mine. It’s so easy to respond to him, parting my lips and meeting his tongue with mine, probably because I remember it so well and have been wanting to feel him again for so long. As my hands settle on his ribs, curling into the fabric of his jacket, his arms wrap around me and he pulls me across is lap so that I’m straddling him. One of his hands is splayed on my lower back, the other comes up to the back of my head, tangling in my hair. 

I release the hold on his jacket and run my hands up his torso, over his well-defined pecs and find the lapel of his shirt, using it as leverage to pull myself flush against him. We are so close, our chests pressed so tightly together, I believe I can feel his heartbeat mixing with my own. Only sheer lack of air makes me pull away from him, his thorough kiss leaving me gasping. Unwilling to open my eyes just yet, I lean my forehead against his, enjoying the feel of his arms around me; of him being here with me. The tip of his nose brushes my cheek as he moves his head a little to bring is lips to the corner of my mouth and continues to kiss a path along my jawline. I break out in gooseflesh and a sigh escapes my lips. 

“I missed you, Y/N”, he mumbles against my skin and presses an open-mouthed kiss to my pulse point. I’m unable to keep from moaning out loud. This is my ultimate pleasure spot (aside from the obvious ones). And he remembers. Of course he does, my subconscious mind hisses, that’s how he got you last time. Don’t you remember?

As this thought sinks in, I freeze. My eyes open wide and a chill settles in my stomach. Sam notices my lack of response almost immediately, of course, he does because usually, it’s like this: kiss this particular spot and I’m putty in your hands. Lightly nip at the skin, I’m burning. Add tongue and a little biting, I’m ready to combust within minutes. He knows this, has brought me to the edge several times over the years by doing this. And the other Sam knew it, too. That Sam, soulless Sam, knew exactly which buttons he needed to push, how to play me. And he did just that: he used what he knew about me to his advantage. A simple lay. A quick repast. A convenient distraction. 

“Y/N, what is it?” Sam’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts and I find his gaze, see concern and worry furrowing his brow. I shake my head, swallow and, realizing I’m still sitting astride him, I scramble off his lap to the side and stand up.

“Y/N, please talk to me. What’s going on?” 

I come to stand on the other side of the coffee table, notice that Sam has stood up as well and I meet his gaze. Tears threaten to spill from my eyes once more and my legs and arms feel jittery. My stomach is clenching and unclenching angrily and I feel sick. Covering my mouth with a hand, I try to take deep, even breaths through my nose, shake my head and shrug. 

“I…I’m sorry…but…but while you were soulless…the other Sam…. He did what you just did and…he used it to…you know…get what he wanted.” 

“Oh god”, he exhales and shakes his head. “I should’ve known. Y/N, I’m sorry…and I know I’ve already said it a lot but it’s true. I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have kissed you. But seeing you, feeling you, having you so near....” 

He trails off and brings up a hand to rub the back of his neck, shrugs once and sighs. He takes a step forward as he continues, “I guess what I’m trying to say is….” His leg bumping into the coffee table interrupts him and one of the photos sitting close to the edge slips off. He bends down at once to pick it up but his apology gets stuck in his throat when he turns the paper around in his hand. And I realize what he is looking at. I gasp loudly before I manage to cover my mouth with a hand. My heart is hammering against my ribs, my stomach once again (or still?) in knots. 

Sam stares transfixed at the photo in his hands and I know the moment he fully grasps what exactly he is seeing. His eyes widen even further and a split second later, his head snaps up to find my gaze.   
“You…you’re pregnant?”

All I have time for is half a nod before Sam’s expression changes. It happens so fast I have no time to react. The color drains from his face, he releases a sound somewhere between a soft cry and a groan as his eyes roll back into his head and he collapses onto my carpet.


	3. Part 3

Part 3

As much as I want to move, the shock over him fainting just like that has me paralyzed as I watch him hit the ground. My heart pounds in my chest, the blood rushing through my veins is so loud, it drowns out every other sound. And still, my hand is clamped tightly over my mouth. Which is why my belated shout of his name comes out half muffled. The picture he’d been holding, now released from his slack fingers, flutters the last inches to the ground and lands only a step away from him. 

It’s just a tiny movement but it helps me to snap myself out of the shock-induced immobility which felt like it lasted for hours but couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. I lurch forward. 

“Sam!” I want to exclaim yet my voice fails me, sounding more like a pleading bleat. Of course, there is no response and I sink to my knees next to his lifeless body. As I grab his shoulders and shake him as hard as I possibly can, I try again, calling his name several times. Nothing. No fluttering of eyelids, no twitching of muscle. Nothing. He’s completely unresponsive and I feel the beginning adrenaline rush threatening to take hold. 

“Oh god,” I groan, burying my face in my hands for a moment and feel the sharp sting of tears behind my eyes. Is he even still breathing? What the hell am I supposed to do? 

“Breathe, Y/N”, I hear my own voice say or maybe I’m just hearing it in my head but it’s enough to make me focus on Sam again. First aid, come one, I know this. I’ve done it before. Taking a deep breath, I lift a hand to his neck, my hand trembling. My fingers brush along his skin, trying, searching for a pulse. But the shake of my fingers, spurred on by the repressed fear, is too intense. I can’t find it. Damn it, why can’t I find his pulse? He…he can’t be dead. He just can’t. 

‘But…what if he is?’, my mind, the cruel part of my mind, fires at me and I shake my head. No, no, no, no. He isn’t. He can’t be. I’ve…I’ve just gotten him back.   
I feel frantic, panicky. My whole body is vibrating with the harsh tremors running through me but I somehow force myself to concentrate on Sam’s face. Once more, I place one hand on his shoulder, trying to siphon off some of his motionlessness, of which he has too much and I too little. 

Taking a deep breath and releasing it in one long, drawn-out sigh, I lift my hand to his neck, fixing my gaze on it and will it with my mind not to shake. My fingers slide over his smooth skin on their search for his pulse point and I almost scream in relief when, this time, I find it. It’s shallow, slightly irregular and a little slow for my liking but it’s there. Never in all my life, and the lives I’ve maybe had before, have I been this glad to find someone’s pulse. 

Next, I make myself check if he’s still breathing which he luckily is and I heave another sigh of relief. It’s shallow, too but what matters right now is that it’s there.  
Okay, good. What do I do now? Do I call an ambulance? A doctor? And I’m at a loss again. How do I explain what happened? What could I even tell them? I mean, sure, I could just say he fainted and leave it at that. But after everything I’ve heard during the past hour, I’m convinced this isn’t just your average faint. 

No, there’s more to it. And it’s not like I can say: He recently got his soul back after walking around without it for a year. Oh, and just so you know, his soul was stuck in hell during that time. Yeah, that’d go over well. Damn it, what can I do? Who can I call? Who do I know and trust enough to…?  
And just like that, a name pops into my head and leaves my lips as a kind of prayer, “Dean!” 

While I don’t really know him at all (excluding the five-day adventure preceding my relationship with Sam, I’ve spoken to Dean maybe once and have seen him three times when he’d pick up his brother) but I know enough about him – and, even more important, he knows everything there is to know about Sam – he should know what to do, right?

A new kind of nervousness settles in my stomach as I pat Sam down, focusing on his pockets on my search for his cell phone. It feels kind of wrong to do but I have no other options and I pray to god that Dean knows who I am. That is if I can even find his number. I find Sam’s Blackberry in his left jacket pocket and, unwittingly, release a sigh of relief. Now for the right number. I somehow locate the key lock button and find the contacts list, going for the letter D at once. There are several, complete with first and last names and one number saved simply under ‘D’, yet none saying right out Dean. Without much thought, I go for the ‘D’ and dial the number, lifting the phone to my ear and feeling both of my hands shake. I hope he picks up, oh god, please let him pick up. 

The ringing tone is so loud in my ear, I almost drop the phone and mentally will my hands – my whole body – to tremble less. It works only partly. Nope, it doesn’t work at all. Damn it. I have no idea for how long I’ve been pressing the phone to my ear, it feels like hours, when finally, someone picks up. 

“Sammy, done already? Didn’t go as planned, eh? I figured you’d be a while….” I can only assume it’s Dean, I don’t exactly remember the sound of his voice. But him naming the caller ‘Sammy’ is as good an indicator as I’m going to get. 

“Dean?” My voice comes out more as a wail than anything else and to my utter embarrassment my tears choose this moment to let loose, turning my voice into one whiny, high-pitched, sniffling mess when I add, “Please tell me you’re in town?”

As soon as the words are out, I regret them but what’s done is done. The fear, the helplessness, all the emotions - even the relief I felt upon someone picking up the phone - all of it keeps me from staying rational. 

“Who the hell are you and why do you have Sam’s phone?” I hear his voice over the line. His tone is clipped, sharp and a shower runs down my spine as I quickly yelp, “It’s Y/N. Dean, I....Sam…he collapsed and doesn’t respond to anything...and I’ve...I’ve got no idea what I’m supposed to do. Please, I...I need your help.”

There’s silence on the other end and I assume Dean is trying to make sense of my words. 

“Are you at your house?” he eventually asks and upon my positive answer, he adds, “Stay right there. I’m on my way.” 

With a soft click and beep the call disconnects. The phone holding hand sinks down to my side and I press my lips into a thin line, forcing myself to stay upright and not bend in on myself. I make myself focus on Sam’s face while letting the phone drop from between my fingers. Reaching for his hand nearest to me, I cradle it in both of mine and lift it to my lips, press a gentle kiss to his knuckles. 

“Please wake up, Sam. It’s…it’s gonna be alright. Dean’s on the way, okay? It’s going to be fine.” And those words turn into my mantra which I keep repeating over and over, either in my head or speaking it softly to the still unconscious Sam. 

The sense of time completely abandons me while I sit at Sam’s side and hold his hand and I have no idea how long it takes until heavy knocking sounds through the silence of my house. I don’t like to leave Sam’s side as I scramble to my feet and rush to the front door. One look through the peephole tells me it’s indeed Dean and I yank the door open. 

“Where is he?” he demands, wasting no time and rushes past me as I direct him to the living room. No greeting, no hello, no nothing. But I ascribe his behavior to the circumstances as I follow him and his gruff voice lets me forget my line of thought. 

“How long’s he been like this?” he asks without looking up at me, his attention completely directed at his brother. 

“A…I don’t know. 20 minutes maybe?” My answer comes out as a question which grants me a dark look from Dean. He sighs and then repeats what I’ve done before, checking Sam’s pulse and breathing. A fearful expression washes over his face before he exclaims, “Damn it, Sam!” and his shoulders slump in resignation. A look of frustration settles on his face, he shakes his head and adds heavily, “I knew this was gonna happen again.” 

“What?” I squeak, my eyes widening. “What do you mean – again? This…something like this has happened before?”

“It’s…it’s flashbacks”, he says and a shower runs all over me, leaving my body covered in gooseflesh even before I ask, “What kind of flashbacks?” It’s as if I know that whatever he is going to say, it’s far from good. 

“Flashbacks from Hell, Y/N”, Dean clarifies in a hard voice and his words cause my stomach to clench painfully. 

“Hell”, I echo in a whisper, unable to fathom what this word means exactly and what possible horrors it might entail but I know it has to be bad. Really bad. My eyes widen even further if that’s at all possible because I already feel like they’re going to pop out of their sockets at any moment. Everything in- and outside of me starts to shake, I feel it. It’s like a wave rolling all over me and I can’t control it. Everything Sam has told me – which I now realize could’ve only been the tip of the iceberg – all of this goes way, way beyond my imagination; beyond what I ever thought possible to be true, much less to happen to a human being. 

And although I’ve never had one in my life before, right now I’m in the beginning stages of a full blown panic attack, I just know it. And I am terrified by it; by everything. Part of my brain starts to chant “Wake up, wake up” as if this is all a dream, a nightmare, and easily solved by waking up. But it’s not. It’s all real, I realize as Dean’s voice, harsh and loud, thunders through my panicked mind and pulls me back to the here and now. 

“Y/N”, he bellows, making me flinch and I notice he’s right there in front of me, his hands tightly gripping my upper arms. “You’ve got to keep it together, Y/N. I know this is a lot to take in but I need your help getting Sam to the car. And….” He pauses, for what I’m not quite sure but then again, I’m unsure of a lot of things going on right now, it doesn’t really matter. When my gaze fully meets his, he takes a deep breath and continues, “And you need to pack a bag, pronto. It’s too dangerous now to leave you here with everything you know and in your condition.” And in sync with his words, he removes one hand from my arm and produces the picture I’d last seen lying on my carpet a few paces away from Sam’s unconscious body.


	4. Part 4

Part 4

My fingers have turned white and numb some time ago from holding onto my purse strap. The joints have started to ache, a dull, thudding pain, from squeezing and tugging at the fabric. But it barely reaches the forefront of my mind which resembles a kaleidoscope of thoughts and emotions. I’m so tense, have been since Dean drove us away from my house and now, several hours down the road, I’m still sitting in the passenger’s seat as stiff as a board and can’t bring myself to relax. 

I have somehow kept the panic attack at bay, possibly helped by Dean’s hard, relentless attitude. But ever since I’ve felt it for the first time, I can feel it bubbling just below the surface, waiting; threatening to take over at any minute. That’s why I can’t let go of the purse strap. It feels like my lifeline; the last literal hold I have on anything because right now, my life is crammed into two small carry-on bags sitting in the foothold of the backseat and I have no idea what is to come. For god’s sake, I’ve got no clue about anything going on right now. 

I don’t remember how I managed to pack those bags. I can’t recall how we got Sam to and onto the backseat of the Impala. I don’t know if I’ve drawn the blinds on my windows or if I even locked up my house. And I don’t care anymore. Or I try not to care. Okay, I wish I wouldn’t care. Right here and right now, I wish there was a knob inside me somewhere, a small button to push that would turn it all off. I am exhausted and just wish I could stop caring about everything and anything. I wish my mind wouldn’t think so many thoughts and conjure up such a concoction of emotions all at once – threatening to consume and drain me of even the last strength I have left. But I’m all out of wishing powder. The thoughts and emotions keep coming; keep on spinning and twisting in my mind. 

And on top of that, my stupid, evil, overactive brain has nothing better to do but to search out each and every image I have ever seen of hell in my whole life and makes it his duty to sporadically interpose them with all the other images in my head. Which leaves me with a cacophony of horrid soulless Sam images: his sneer, his evil smile, his cold laugh and dark voice mocking me; or – and what is even worse - seeing the real Sam (my Sam) collapsing to the ground in my living room only to sink through the floor and vanish in a storm of fire. 

“Oh god”, I groan and squeeze my eyes shut – as if that would help to stop the images. I just want it to stop. I want this ever going thought-carrousel to stop turning. Please stop. Just stop.

“Y/N, are you okay?” Dean’s voice manages to worm its way through the whirlwind of my thoughts and I realize I must’ve spoken out loud. I turn to him, the meaning of his words not yet fully sunk in. But when it does about half a minute later, my eyes widen and I actually yell, “Does it look like I’m okay, Dean?” 

My voice is so shrill, so piercing, Dean jumps slightly in his seat and, in the process, jerks to the right. 

“Jeez, Y/N”, Dean exclaims, his hands grasping the wheel tight to counteract the swerving of the heavy vehicle with steady movements. “A simple ‘No’ would’ve been fine.” 

“Would it?” I screech though it’s a little lower and not as loud now. “I haven’t been okay since we left my house. Damn it, I haven’t been okay since what you and Sam told me really sunk into my brain. And I feel like I’m gonna explode any minute. I’m on the verge of a massive panic attack. And to top it all off, my dang stupid brain fires image after image of Sam burning in Hell at me. So, no Dean, I am anything but okay!” 

My breathing has grown heavy and labored while letting it all out and I find it harder and harder to breathe. I’m heaving and gasping and I can’t seem to calm down. One hand starts to clutch at the collar of my sweatshirt while my chest is heaving rapidly with the heavy and loud breathing. A slight wheezing sound adds itself to the noises I’m making. I can’t breathe, it’s not working. There’s not enough air in my lungs although somewhere in the back of my head I know that it’s the other way around. 

I barely notice that the car stops and that Dean gets out, I’m too busy trying to get my breathing back to normal. But as much as I want to and try to, there’s nothing for it. I can’t calm down. I can’t focus on anything but the fact that I can’t breathe which only makes my frustration with myself worse. And this, in itself, furthers my gasping for air. It’s a vicious cycle but I’m in no shape, form or state of mind to break it. 

Something is pushed into my face and pressed to my mouth and nose. My first impulse is to fight it. But when I feel a hand on my back starting to rub in gentle circles and I hear Dean’s voice telling me to keep breathing, I realize that he has placed a small plastic bag over my mouth and nose. Without thinking, both of my hands come up to fasten around the plastic, holding it tightly to my skin as if it has become the most valuable possession I have. 

“That’s it, just breathe now, Y/N. Slow and steady, come on, I got you”, he says and to my amazement, he starts to breathe with or rather for me. And I follow his lead. Short breath in, long, slow breath out. Short in, long out. 

We fall into a rhythm, his hand stays on my upper back for the whole time, sometimes rubbing, sometimes simply resting there. I listen to the sound of Dean’s breath, concentrate on feeling the warmth of his hand on my back and I even manage to keep repeating in my head ‘Short in, loooong out.’ 

And ever so slowly I am able to let go of the panic; of the emotional rollercoaster inside me. I feel my muscles relax slightly so that I’m not as stiff as a board anymore. With every long exhale, my shoulders sag a little more and eventually, I slump against the backrest of my seat, exhausted, spent. My hands sink down to my lap and with them the plastic bag but I stick to the steady breathing pattern and briefly close my eyes. And for the first time since Sam showed up at my door – no, actually even since before then – my mind, my brain feels numb; as tired and wrung out as I feel. 

When I open my eyes again, Dean hasn’t moved. He is still kneeling beside me, just outside the Impala. One of his hands is still on my upper back and he just then places the other over my own, giving it a gentle squeeze. 

“Better?” His voice is mild, considerate and his expression has softened from hard determination to one of compassion. I simply nod my head yes as I feel the beginning prickle and burn of tears behind my eyes because I just know that I wouldn’t be able to hold them back if I speak. 

“Alright, good”, Dean says and pats my hand. “We’ve got several more hours to go. Do you think you can manage that?” 

Although I feel I won’t hold out that long, I once again nod my head. Dean rubs my back before he gets up and I hear him mumble, “Atta girl.” 

He closes the door on my side and while he walks around to his, I feel my hands start to shake in my lap. The hold I have on the plastic bag tightens and I force myself to keep up the slow, steady breathing rhythm. But despite trying so hard, the first tear slips out as Dean slides into the driver’s seat and starts the engine.   
I’m pretty sure the tears are mostly due to all of the tension leaving my body and I press my eyes shut, hoping to hold them back. But there’s no stopping the flow. More leak out and roll down my cheeks and I can’t help the soft sob escaping me. 

“Oh, Y/N”, he says and I feel his hand on my shoulder. Another sob tears itself from my throat and I say in a wispy tone, “I’m so sorry, Dean. I…I don’t know why….” 

Yet, he shushes me, patting my upper arm and I am able to find his gaze, wiping at the wetness on my cheeks with the back of one hand. 

“Don’t apologize, Y/N”, he tells me, the pressure of his hand steady on my arm. “This is a whole lot of stuff to take in, believe me, I know how that feels. And you’re handling it extremely well so far.” 

He pauses for a moment to think, nodding at me and a vague smile is visible on his lips. This is the most he has spoken to me during the whole car ride and I try to return the smile but it’s lopsided at best and there are even more tears blurring my vision now. 

“Tell you what”, he says as he hands me a tissue from god knows where and I gingerly dab at my eyes. “How about we take the next motel we come across so you can get some rest, huh? And I’ll find us some food.” 

“Yes”, I croak, nodding my head briefly and blowing my nose. “That sounds really good.”


End file.
